


Snow Hot Pot

by BanhTM



Series: Rainbow Rocket Stories [3]
Category: Pocket Monsters SPECIAL | Pokemon Adventures, Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Languages and cultures, Rainbow Rocket, Snowing - Freeform, huh yes friendship is the treasure and all that, trapped inside
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:53:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28175706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BanhTM/pseuds/BanhTM
Summary: Treasure hunters from different continents converge into Japan following the instructions on a dubious treasure map. With the bad weather disrupting progress, it looks like they'll have to take shelter until the storm lets up. What better way to pass time than getting to know each other?Inspired by Golden Kamuy.
Series: Rainbow Rocket Stories [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2148357
Kudos: 5





	Snow Hot Pot

"Как вы себя чувствуете?"

Upon opening his eyes, Giovanni sees light. Light from a sputtering oil lamp on a wooden nightstand. The groggy light is such a stark contrast to the hellish white landscape outside the windows.

Somewhere beyond the muffled howling of the wind and the creaking ceiling beams, Giovanni makes out words. Strange sounds. Like someone is speaking while gurgling water.

There is a man in the hallway: a pale, lanky thing. He offers a polite smile at Giovanni's incredulous gawking, blue eyes crinkling like inverted crescents as he sets down a bundle of clothes on the bed.

"Добрый вечер."

What Giovanni heard was: "Doryyecheechee?"

"Figgh'i buttona," he mutters. "Who the hell are you?"

When his question echoes back, Giovanni switches from Sicilian to the standard Italian dialect they taught in school. Crickets. He tries American English. French.

Nada. Throughout the cycling of languages, the young man merely continues to don his polite smile. Heat colors Giovanni's cheeks. He feels, frankly, like a fool. A silence settles, heavy and awkward.

"You, um, live here?"

"Nochashaha."

"Okay… I'll take that as a yes. Thanks for your help."

Nodding, the young man points to the clothes: a woolen scarf, the woolen coat, and a pair of woolen socks. Indicating to the blizzard outside, he hugs himself, shudders, and peers intently at Giovanni.

"Oh. Thanks."

After Giovanni dresses himself—feeling like an overfed, bloated yet content penguin—he follows his company into the next room. There is a giant brick stove that takes up an entire wall. The young man feeds wood into its yawning mouth, and the room explodes into warmth.

"Vikahteehesst?"

"Um… no?"

"Shtohvideeheetap?"

"No…"

Snickering slightly, the young man heads for the kitchen, leaving behind a very confused and annoyed Giovanni. What language was that? Teehees and pdklprwq? Was he tricked into admitting some damning revelation?

Instead of waiting for his eccentric host, Giovanni races back to the bedroom. His clothes. They're not here. Before that blizzard overwhelmed him, he had possessed an item of great, world-ending importance.

Did that kid steal it? Did he know about _that?_

Pressing an ear to the wall, Giovanni listens. Hail battering the glass frame. Wood crackling in the stove. The tick-tick of the oil lamp as the flame thrashes against the shade.

After ascertaining that the coast is clear, Giovanni darts to the bathroom.

"Ah! There it is!"

Giovanni yanks his soaking wet suit off their clothespin. He gropes his pockets, and relief breaks out in every pore of his body.

The treasure map is wet, but not ruined. Same can't be said for his pistol. Fortunately, he's defenseless but not undefeated.

So what now? He can't resume his hunt in this horrible weather. He was fortunate enough to be rescued before he succumbed to hypothermia. And if _that_ wasn't a divine sign to continue his pursuit of the gold, then what was?

Giovanni returns to the main room to see his host exiting the kitchen, his sleeves stained bright red. If Giovanni was drunk, he would've assumed the obvious and shoot before he gets shot. But right now he's sober, which allows him to distinguish these stains from the usual bloodstains. These are a floral shade of red, bordering on pink, containing a slightly earthy fragrance.

Speaking of which, there's a wonderful smell in the air. The young man pulls out a chair, and Giovanni needs no translation to sit down. He tries not to appear like an overbearing guest, instead donning a bored, judgmental look a boss would reserve for his underling.

The young man returns with a steaming bowl of bright red soup. It doesn't look like minestrone. The broth is denser, thickened by the starches of root vegetables.

"What is this?" Giovanni emphasizes his question by jabbing with his spoon.

"Borshshshsh."

"Shsh?"

"Borscht."

"Okay…What about that? Those dumplings."

"Pelmeni."

"Looks like gnocchi."

"Nyo-khi?"

Giovanni scoffs, secretly glad to not be the uncultured idiot for once. "Gnocchi. You got Vodka to wash this down?"

"Voht-kah?"

"Finally, we're communicating. I also won't mind wine or beer."

"Nyet. Vah-dah?"

That must be a novel flavor of Vodka. Giovanni dangles his cup impatiently. The young man returns with a canteen of hot water, much to his guest's chagrin.

Great. Just fucking great. No Vodka. No beer, no wine. Trapped in a wooden cabin under a blizzard with someone how looks about his son's age, except he doesn't speak Sicilian, Italian, English, nor French.

While Giovanni resigns himself to eating his meal, his gaze drifts to a faded map near the refrigerator. As if reading his mind, the young man grabs the parchment and holds it closer.

"Rah-see-yeh," he says, circling his finger above a large, white landmass labeled **_Россия._** "Ee-poh-nee-yah." The peninsula labeled **_Япония._** He points to the island sandwiched between the two landmasses. Waves his hand around the house.

Then it all comes back to Giovanni. That's right. He was exploring Japan like the map had shown him. That freak snowstorm came out of nowhere. Trapped him in this god-forsaken tip of the Japanese peninsula, next to the Russian border.

"Aht-kooh-duh-vi?"

Judging from the young man's shining eyes and his holding the map, Giovanni surmises hat question must've been along the lines of "Where the hell did you come from?" Politer, of course.

So with a haughty smirk on his face, Giovanni unfurls his hand like he's about to hand out promotions. "I was born here, in Sicily, and raised in Florence. I spent most of my schooling in Tokyo. Afterwards, I expanded my business into New York and Paris."

The young man bobs his head, eyes brimming with admiration. Giovanni feels his cheeks color. It's been a while since he was appreciated. It feels nice.

"Сицилия, Италия, Северная Америка, Франция, и Япония? Я хотел бы поехать в Италию в мае."

"Um… sure?"

That consonant clusterfuck sounds like a praise. Giovanni will gladly leave it at that.

"Oh yes," he adds. "My name is Giovanni." For emphasis, he jabs at his stomach. "GEE-OH-VAH-NEE."

"Dzhovanni?"

"Close enough. What about you? You. What. Called? Ppbtghvlghfeehee?"

The young man covers his mouth, stifling his snickering. "Sirius. Meenkjlptfwi Sirius."

Finally, something other than Vodka that Giovanni can both comprehend and pronounce. "Sirius, eh?" Sliding his fist into his pocket, he grips the treasure map. A plan begins to brew in his mind, a rather clever plan that will involve his oblivious host. "Looks like I'll be stuck with you for a while, kid."


End file.
